


The Day's Last Breath In Our Sails

by chickadee



Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-16 18:03:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11258094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chickadee/pseuds/chickadee
Summary: After Aelin's kidnapping by Maeve at the end of Empire of Storms, her closest companions learn to cope with her devastating absence.





	1. Chapter 1

Rowan and the shifter, wearing Aelin’s face, made another lazy rotation around the dance floor in the ballroom of the castle. This invitation had not been easy to secure. It was a rutting gift from the gods as far as Lysandra was concerned, but she couldn't help but feel that they were squandering their opportunity to glean more information about their adversaries, about the possible whereabouts of their queen.

Rowan’s discomfort, his distraction, was written across the tight lines of his beautiful face. Lysandra huffed and pressed herself tighter against the body of her best friend’s husband. He stiffened and cringed as he looked down into her wide turquoise eyes. Aelin’s eyes. 

“I'm sorry,” he mumbled. 

“Could you try? Just try to act like I'm her. That you actually love me,” she let out a breathy laugh, “desire me,” in a voice made for the bedroom. A bit of a blush lit up Rowan’s icy pale face. If he'd been a lesser male, that voice might have made every bit of blood in his body shoot straight to his dick. But Rowan was nothing if not the embodiment of control. Of frigidity and severity. 

And that was the whole problem. When the true Aelin had been with them, she'd painted every corner of this rutting world with her love for him. She'd screamed it from the rooftops of every country they'd traveled through. She'd be in the middle of a war planning session with the entire court when her eyes would meet Rowan’s across the table and she'd lay down an innuendo so thick that their friends would frantically grab up their maps and papers and flee the room as fast as they were able before the two lovers devoured each other in the middle of everything. Aelin had taken her prince of wind and ice and made him burn with his passion for her every day they were together.

Lysandra could talk like her, smirk like her, saunter across a room with hips swinging like her, but she couldn't do that. 

And people were starting to talk. The occupants of this court who didn't know that Lysandra paraded around as Aelin, were starting to joke about a lovers spat. That Rowan was just too old, too cold, to keep up with Aelin’s fiery passion anymore. It was the least of their problems, Lysandra knew, but it worried her too. How long before the others started really asking what happened to Aelin? Why she never played with her fire at meetings anymore? Why her lover, her consort, her king, her gods damned mate could barely meet her eyes?

And besides, there were very few males on any continent of their world who could resist Lysandra’s charms. Clarisse’s very thorough training had ensured that. But Rowan. Gods damned Rowan just wouldn't melt for her. Right now he was holding her like she was made of glass as they swept across the dance floor again. She was fairly certain he had never held the real Aelin so gingerly, like she might break in two at any moment. 

As if Rowan could sense her thoughts (and maybe he could, she allowed), he slid the hand cupping her shoulder blade down her back to press against the hollow above the curve of her - Aelin’s - ass, tucking her against the hard planes of his body. She reached up to brush a kiss against the side of his mouth.

“Thank you,” she murmured. She could feel gazes around the room settle on them, the rumble of satisfaction at the sight of the Terresen royals held tight in each other's arms. That's better, the room seemed to sigh. With the exception, perhaps, of the corner where Aedion glowered, murder lighting up his eyes. And what was that? Jealousy, seething there? Something deep inside Lysandra, where the heart of a ghost leopard still beat, gave a satisfied little purr at that. 

\---- 

Rowan felt Lysandra’s body soften against his as Aedion’s gaze washed over them. Became slowly aware of the scent of her flaring up as he circled his thumb on her lower back while Aedion watched with glazed eyes. Rowan knew he shouldn't be having so much fun eliciting those pulses of jealousy wafting through the room, twined with Aedion earthy scent. It was just too easy. And this, at least, harmless. At least compared to what would come, later. 

Lysandra’s eyes slid closed and she brushed her mouth against his again.

“There, that's not so bad, is it?” She breathed, barely more than a whisper against his icy skin. Her eyes opened again to watch his face closely. Aelin’s eyes. Aedion's, too. “I know this isn’t what you want. It's not what any of us want, Rowan.” A shiver went down her spine, a tremble beneath his hand as she spun again to face Aedion. “It's most certainly not what I want,” and he could feel a pulse of what she wanted, that scent striking out and hitting him high in the back of his nose where he could almost taste it. And some sharp piece of the iceberg that was Rowan Whitethorn cleaved from the icy face, becoming unmoored and splashing into the frigid water of his consciousness. The room swam in front of him, everything awash with a sickly light that Rowan recognized, vaguely, as panic. Because that scent. That want, he realized, felt so familiar. 

\---- 

Aedion watched with fire in his eyes as Rowan pivoted sharply, dragging Lysandra with him so all Aedion could see was the beautiful back of her dress, hugging the planes of her muscular back, her pert ass. Rowan met his eyes over Lysandra’s shoulder. Aedion knew they could go glower for glower with each other all night if it came to that. Rowan and Lysandra swayed in place, bodies flush, and, was that trembling? That tight feeling in Aedion’s chest started to spread. 

He chewed the inside of his lip and, while Rowan watched, bit down hard enough that blood flooded his mouth. Rowan’s green eyes flared, pupils blown as he scented Aedion's blood, and both males were once again grateful that there were no other Faes in attendance tonight. Because anyone with heightened senses would take one step inside and know, as surely as Rowan and Aedion knew right now, how fucked they all were.

How well and truly fucked.


	2. Chapter 2

The first time was an accident. 

They were staying at a small inn in a decrepit town five miles from the border of Adarlan, biding their time, praying for a bit of news from Gavriel and Lorcan, word from the Bane, hoping for any tidbit of gossip or rumor about Maeve. 

Aedion could see the way the passing days wore Rowan down. He was as tightly coiled as a spring. He imagined that this hard-edged, joyless Rowan was exactly who Aelin had met when she first arrived in Wendlyn. It was a miracle she'd ever been able to melt through his icy facade.

Under Rowan’s typical pine and snow scent, Aedion caught a whiff of something deeper, darker. Loneliness edged with desperation, frustration.

If Rowan had been a soldier in the Bane, Aedion would have slung an arm across his shoulders and laughed, “you need to get laid, boyo.”

But Rowan wasn't one of his Bane soldiers. He was Aedion’s queen’s mate, which certainly complicated things. But they could still get rip roaring drunk tonight. Maybe that would be enough to relax the tense prince, refocus him as they waited for news of Aelin.

\----

It didn't take much for Aedion to convince Rowan to go down the street to the only tavern in town. Lysandra shook her head when they asked her to go, Aelin’s golden locks swishing around her shoulders. She’d barely taken a second over the last few days to relax, spending all her time studying the resources Rowan and Aedion had cobbled together about Terrasen nobles and Aelin’s alliances across the world. There was no room to slip up when Lysandra was wearing the queen’s face.

As soon as Rowan ducked into the tavern, he knew it wasn't a place Lysandra would have liked, anyway. The floors were sticky and the the air was ripe with the smell of unwashed men. Aedion shouldered his way to the bar and signaled the barmaid for two tankards of ale. 

The few tables in the place were already crowded with men, so Rowan and Aedion stood awkwardly against the wall, shoulder to shoulder drinking their ale and scanning the room for any threats. It only took them a moment to ascertain that the room, although packed thick with people, was clear of any real threat, but neither male relaxed from their defensive stance. Old habits, Rowan supposed, died hard. At least it was too loud to have a decent conversation. A small mercy, as Rowan wasn't feeling very conversational.

Rowan could feel Aedion’s eyes on the barmaid as she rounded the room, collecting empty tankards on her tray, making a poor attempt at wiping the filthy tables with an equally filthy rag. One of the few women in the tavern full of men, she had to have had a dozen pairs of eyes watching her wind through the room. But it didn't stop her from making eye contact with Aedion and giving him a little smirk. A challenge, an innuendo, an invitation. Beside him, Aedion took a long pull of his drink and rolled his shoulders a bit. Rowan’s eyebrows went up slightly as he glanced at his companion and took his own deep drink of ale.

In the weeks since Aelin had been taken, Rowan hadn't noticed Aedion’s interest in any women they'd encountered on the road. Except perhaps Lysandra. Aedion’s feeling of betrayal by Lysandra was a palpable fog that hung between them in every town they stopped. And yet there were times in the privacy of their own rented rooms, that Lysandra shifted back into the body she had worn for so many years in Rifthold, and Aedion’s turquoise eyes stalked her around the tight spaces they all shared. It was those nights that Rowan lay awake being suffocated by the scent of interest and intrigue that Aedion gave off while he slept nearby. While his friend mumbled to himself and dreamed of the shifter and Rowan cursed his too-keen sense of smell. 

So Rowan had to admit he was a little surprised by the looks Aedion was throwing the barmaid’s way. They had two adjoining rooms at the inn in town, but surely Aedion didn't want to jeopardize his chances with Lysandra by bedding the young woman who was currently throwing coy glances over her shoulder as she worked the room. 

Aedion gulped down the end of his ale, and on cue, the barmaid appeared at his elbow.

“Another round?” And Aedion nodded as he pushed his empty tankard into the woman’s hands, then darted a devilish look at Rowan who was nursing his half-full tankard. 

“Think you can keep up old man?”

Rowan met Aedion’s eyes with a wicked gleam. He wasn't about to let his oldest friend’s son drink him under the table. Without taking his eyes off Aedion, he drank down the rest of his ale in one long pull.

Challenge accepted.

\----

Two hours later, the males were stumbling down the streets back to their inn, arms around the other’s shoulders to keep each other upright. Lysandra was probably going to be pissed when she saw them, if she was still up. Aedion licked his lips at the thought of Lysandra’s fiery temper. He hoped it'd be her angry face that met them in the rooms upstairs, not his cousin’s.

“Thought for a minute you were going to bring that barmaid back with you tonight,” Rowan slurred as they stumbled through the alley leading to the inn’s back staircase.

“Nah,” Aedion mumbled back. “But she sure was pretty, wasn't she?”

Rowan shrugged. “Not really my type.”

Aedion huffed a laugh. Of course the barmaid wasn't his type. His mate was _Aelin_. Hard to compete with that.

“I know you miss her.” Missing wasn't half the issue, though, Aedion knew. Rowan walked around like a man missing half his head, most of his heart, and his entire dick. Like he had forgotten how to breathe, to exist, without Aelin. “We’re getting her back, Prince,” Aedion promised, with steel in his voice.

“Thank you, Aedion.” Rowan’s gravelly voice bit out, thick with emotion and drink. “I couldn't do this without you.” And Aedion nodded solemnly, tightening his grip around Rowan’s shoulders.

They were on the stairs now, going embarrassingly slow. There was a time when Aedion could drink more than whole legions of soldiers combined, but it had been a while. And the pretty barmaid had sure kept the ale coming, fast and furious. Aedion guessed they'd both feel like shit in the morning.

\---- 

Aedion pushed open the door to the sitting room that the males were using as their bedroom while they were at this inn, and Rowan’s breath caught as he took in the scene before him. The room was dark, save for a few low burning candles. Lysandra-as-Aelin was pacing a worn track into the carpeting and when the door cracked open she stopped and threw the most scathing look over her shoulder. That look. It was _so_ Aelin.

Blood pounded hard through Rowan’s body as he took in the flickering fire, the loose golden hair, the haughty look on her face. And before she could open her mouth to scold them for coming home stumbling drunk, Rowan was across the room pressing her body back against the desk she'd been using to study earlier. His hands were gripping her hair hard, pulling her head back so he could brush his fangs against her neck when she stuttered out an alarmed “Rowan!” and the scent of her shock and fear flared up. Rowan stumbled back, almost gagging at the smell that was so wholly un-like Aelin’s.

“Shit,” he cursed, dropping to his knees on the inn’s carpet. “Shit!” He slammed a hand against the floor. 

“You need to get some sleep, Rowan,” Lysandra said, as gently and as understanding as she could. “And a bath. Both of you,” her eyes flickering to Aedion who was watching everything from his place against the door. “You smell like you've been drinking in a sewer all night.” 

Then she swept into the adjoining bedroom and shut the door. Rowan pretended he couldn't hear the sound of her locking the door, something she hadn't bothered to do in all the days they'd been traveling together. 

Shame and bile surged up into his throat as he buried his face in his hands. 

\-----

“Alright, Prince?” Aedion didn't know what to say, how to react, where to look. But this was his brother, and he felt more than a little guilty that he'd pushed so much ale on Rowan. So he crossed the room and leaned against the desk, boot toeing the carpet beside Rowan on the floor. 

“If it makes you feel any better, this won't change Lysandra's feelings toward you. She wouldn't ever...judge you for something like this.” Aedion was bungling the words, but he hoped Rowan understood the message. Lysandra had known true depravity at the hands of Arobynn, of the other scum of Rifthold, but she had come away from it more empowered, more enlightened, about sex. Not jaded. Not shameful. Not fearful. 

“I know,” Rowan bit out. “But still, embarrassing. They're going to talk about this for a long time, aren't they?” Aedion knew who he meant and smiled. 

“Oh yes, it will be the very first thing Lysandra tells her when they're reunited. She's going to throw this in your face every fight you have for at least the next three centuries. Maybe more.”

“Gods, Aedion, what I wouldn't give to spend the next three centuries with her. I need that.”

Aedion slid to the floor and gripped the strong muscle between Rowan’s neck and shoulder, squeezed gently. “I know, Prince, I know.” 

“I should sleep.” It was the understatement of the century. Aedion knew that Rowan was barely sleeping these days, spending all night rolling around, probably torturing himself thinking about Aelin and Maeve.

\----

After wiping themselves down in the small bathing room attached to their rooms, the males had extinguished the candles and fell into their makeshift beds - a cot for Aedion and the sofa for Rowan. 

Aedion shifted around trying to find a comfortable spot on the cot, trying not to thing about the heavy scents lingering in the air - the anger, the shame, the strand of arousal and need, the alcohol, soured, a thread of sweat, an overwhelming pool of loss and desperation. He would never sleep like this, not while Rowan was across the room ruminating on what he'd done. 

The cot groaned as Aedion climbed out of bed and stalked across the room in nothing but his underwear. He knelt next to Rowan spread out on the sofa, making it look like doll furniture with his broad shoulders and long limbs. Rowan’s green eyes flickered in the dark as Aedion grabbed his face roughly and forced him to pay attention.

“Listen and listen good. I'm only going to tell you this one time. The years I spent with the Bane, doing the king’s bidding, my enemy’s bidding, I did many things that I'm not proud of. But I also did many, many things that I am extraordinarily proud of, both on and off the battlefields, Rowan. I kept my men alive, as many as I could, and I kept hope alive for them, as much as I could. The look in your eyes, right now, is all too familiar. I can scent the fear and desperation in you, Rowan. And honestly, fear and desperation makes for a piss poor soldier.” Rowan’s responding growl raised the golden hairs along Aedion’s neck, but he plowed on. “I have seen that look on the face of so many of my soldiers, both older and younger. It used to pull me up short, make me reevaluate what I was doing dragging these men all over kingdom come for Adarlan. But when the faces around me started to be overcome with the look that you wear on your face right now, I'd order my men to the nearest tavern. We'd drink like fish - sour wine, the finest mead, ale that tasted like piss - it didn't matter. We drank until the numbness in our hearts subsided and then we fell into the arms of the women waiting. And if there weren't ones waiting,” a glance at the door where Lysandra slept, “we dropped the gold to procure them.” Rowan’s Adam's apple bobbed sharply as he swallowed the words, the implication. “After a few days of drinking and fucking, I had my soldiers back. Sharp, straight backed, ready to fight for me, with me.”

“I'm not fucking a prostitute, Aedion. I'd suggest you -” But Aedion stopped him with a hand on his arm and loosed a rough breath.

“That's not what I'm suggesting, Prince. There were men in my ranks who wouldn't do it, couldn't or didn't want to. And those men, I brought to my own bed.” Rowan’s eyes went impossibly dark and Aedion knew his own probably looked the same. “I let them worship my body there in my own tent without fear or shame or any sense of obligation. Their general, their friend, their brother-in-arms, their lover. Whatever they needed me to be. You spoke to me of the Old Ways this spring. Of the unspoken oaths and bonds between you and your cadre. These are my oaths, my bonds to my men, the Oldest Ways I know to bring a man back to himself.” 

Aedion’s chest heaved with an unexpected emotion. Not shame. Never shame. But the knowledge that he would do this, do this for Rowan if that's what it took, without regret. For country and queen.

Aedion felt a second shield slam up around the room a second before Rowan took his face in his hands and kissed him, hard.

**Author's Note:**

> * Title from a line in Pablo Neruda's poem, Drunk as Drunk.


End file.
